Party ninety-nine: Beckham's Secret
It was a misty morning in the Cotswolds, far cooler than the baking heat of premature summer that had dominated for the past few weeks. The dewy grass brushed on his canvas trainers and he wished for a moment that he'd worn wellies, then decided it hardly mattered. He was still in his cotton pyjamas beneath the waterproof and cap he'd pulled on leaving the house, he could still feel the cosy warmth of his sleepy skin beneath the fabric, a cooling layer of sweat from a sunrise fuck with his wife.
It was the only way to greet your 45th birthday, right? David Beckham had kissed his Victoria awake and revelled in her breathy, half-asleep birthday wishes before sliding his morning wood into her and silently riding her into a series of deep orgasms that were muffled by his own kisses. The day had begun well. After, he'd pulled back on his PJs and a coat and some trainers and attended to the early ritual of getting the dogs out for their walk. The beautiful black Labradors bounded casually through the misty field a few yards ahead and he swishes their defunct leashes idly from one hand as he strolled along, still floating on his early morning orgasm back there and anticipating the pleasant day of wholesome family celebration.
The ageing football hunk reached the edge of a dip in the land, where this field gave way to a rolling slope and one of their nearby villages lay below, rooftops just about jutting from the misty weather and forming a quintessential British panorama for the England hero. He grinned contentedly at this sight, in love with this patch of countryside and the pastoral idyll he and his family had set up out here, ideal for quarantining. Week after week of cosy family life for him, his wife, three out of four kids; so much behaving and being the perfect husband and father. A wistful grin played on his lips as he smiled into the mists, watching the dogs disappear and fade back into view on the sweep of grass below.
So much behaving, he repeated to himself, and barely a mischievous thought in all those weeks.
But this morning, for all the satisfaction of burying himself in his beloved wife, there was a hint of those old temptations on the edge of his consciousness. He'd needed this walk, this cool damp air, as much as the dogs did; something about the fresh rural air could dull the memories and desires of a more... metropolitan life. He smiled at his own euphemism. Metropolitan, metrosexual, metro-whatever...
The text had set him off. Sent late yesterday evening but unseen by him at the time, busy with bedtime family binge-viewing in the firelit lounge, enjoying the comfy banter between his sons and daughter, enjoy even the intermittent business calls and aloofness of the powerful woman who had brought so much to his life. He'd seen it this morning though, checking the time and first few birthday wishes on his phone, Victoria still moaning her fourth orgasm in the bed next to him. There were a dozen messages on the phone already, time zones being a mild issue when your friendship network extended quite so internationally as his did.
One message was less exotic, though, and surprised him. A very early morning message for his one-time skipper. Happy birthday Dave,' read the text message from Alan Shearer, have a smashing one, lad, luv to the family. Was just remembering our England days recently, great times.' No kiss, but of course, Shearer was old guard. David had smiled fondly at the message, there were few English players he respected more; and yet, alongside that professional and social regard, there was a hint of something else. A memory rarely touched and considered, and the oddest suggestion that it wasn't just the football his old national teammate was referencing in that simple birthday message. He stared at it, questioning his own connotation, then closed it and read the other messages, coming through from friends based in Asia and Australia.
David fumbled with the dog leads in his hands and allowed himself to return to that Eastern European hotel room for a moment, thinking of a much younger self, before whistling at the black dogs and nodding back in the direction of home. The mists would clear and the day of family fun would begin, his 45th birthday truly welcoming him into middle-aged comfort; even if part of him was reliving a less conventional past.
Another misty day, a damp September evening in 1996. The Derby County football pitch set ablaze by floodlights that turned the thin rain into flecks of gold. David Beckham bounding up and down the midfield with all the energy of his 21-year-old legs. Blond-brown hair bouncing in floppy curtains and complexion rosy with the night chill as he kept his eyes sharply on the action and turned the manager's instructions over in his head. He was really beginning to make a mark at United now, his year away at Preston on loan a worrying blip in his progress here; and now he had made his debut for England, he felt there was an added layer of pressure to live up to that accolade, even back on his Premiership side.
Derby were a goal up already, thanks to Laursen, and there was a certain tension in the air as the first half drew to a close. The air getting colder, the misty rain getting a little thicker. Beckham braced himself against the chill and stayed fully in the zone, desperate to make his contribution. 38 minutes in, his moment struck, his goal went in. It was a silky shot and really sent the goalkeeper flying in failed desperation; as soon as it hit the back of the net, the men were on him in a pack of hugs and slaps and hearty cheers.
Our fucking Lion,' whooped Pallister, grabbing the back of his neck, and Nicky Butt just wailed some vague triumphant battle cry in his face. Legend,' barked Cantona in his rough French accent, giving him a slap in the side that almost winded the lean young midfielder. Cruyff ruffled his shaggy brylcreem mop of hair and his closest pal on the squad, Gary Neville, tossed an arm about his shoulders and planted a kiss on the back of his sweaty head. `Brill, David, just brill!' he shouted in his ear. The throng of red-faced, hardworking Manchester United players dispersed from him and one last celebration came his way.
His fellow midfielder Ryan Giggs brought a strong high-five up to slap his palm and grinned at him with both admiration and a sense of playful competition. Excellent work, Davy boy, excellent,' he said in his syrupy Welsh accent, patting his elbow before starting off back to his side of the pitch. More of that!' he called over his shoulder, grinning beneath his own floppy curtains of dark curling hair, then disappearing into the thickening rain to take the other wing.
Beckham put his all into it, earning a yellow card minutes after Giggs did the same, but there was no `more of that'; a second goal never materialised for United, but fortunately the same was true for Derby County. The game ended in a 1-1 draw at 90 minutes and both sides trudged off feeling a little unrewarded, the rain now thick and fast and their kits soaked through as they clacked their boots down the tunnel and into their respective changing rooms.
The mood in the Away rooms was muted by the 1 point draw, but young Beckham was of course treated to the usual bursts of applause and friendly praise, the only man on the side to have really made much impact on the game. These shoulder pats and half-hugs ran from the touchline to the tunnel, through the muddy grass-strewn tiles of the changing rooms and even into the communal showers, to which all had hurried to warm up and burn off the cold mist. As self-conscious in these settings as he had been as a teen, Beckham splashed soapy water down his smooth chest and just grinned humbly at the loud plaudits from the man at the next shower, goalkeeper Peter Schmeicel; Butt and Irwin had started a bit of a chant for him further down the steamy showers and he just laughed this off, knowing it was all fun to distract the gang from failing to secure a proper win.
He turned back to the wall and finished showering, in a slight hurry as always, then grabbed a fresh white towel and made for his peg and locker, keen to be dressed. He was by no means insecure or ashamed of his lithe young body or his more private regions, if anything the opposite; he'd developed quite early down there and had been casually teased as `big dick Beckham' on one Tottenham youth side, and the invasive nickname had troubled him more than he blushingly let on at the time.
He found himself between two of his good mates and similarly youthful United stars, Gary to his left and Ryan to his right. Both men gave him final pats on the bare back, towel-clad and bedraggled 90s hairstyles themselves.
Such a good goal, lad,' local Neville was saying in his rasping Mancunian accent, solid performance, ya know?'
David grinned his way; he was close enough to Gary to hide his efforts at bashful humility, letting a wide smile of triumph dimple his boyband looks. I was desperate to get one in,' he admitted, felt like I had something to prove. After... well, you know, England.'
Well you certainly did your Three Lions proud,' Ryan pointed out, what the hell happened to you on that England trip? You've come back twice the worker, haha. Not just preening and posing, actually putting a shift in.' He gave a throaty laugh.
Ah, ignore him,' sighed Neville happily, he's just a bitter Welshman. But he's not totally wrong -- you've been fantastic all week in training, mate. Seriously.'
`Er, thanks guys,' David said, looking from one to the other and picking up a second towel to pat at his hair and shoulders. He enjoyed the grins of appreciation on both lads' faces but felt a stab of panic and paranoia at the nature of their question: what had they heard?! What did they know?!
Whatever Shearer and his lads did, it worked!' laughed Giggsy, his chuckles musical and Welsh as he pulled a heavy sweater on over his barely dried torso and adjusted his crotch beneath his towel. You are gonna be a superstar by the end of this season, big lad. Trust me.'
David blushed a little at this, both the prediction and the nickname, and turned to catch Gary's happy smile, his hand landing on his shoulder. `He's not wrong there, buddy. You were robbed of a second goal, and you would have won that match for all of us. No way are you buying your own drink tonight at the bar...!' There was a hoot of agreement to this comment not just from Giggs, but from Butt and Irwin and Scholes, and the subdued mood was suddenly as if they were warming up after a 4-0 victory.
In the late 90s, management was a bit more casual about footballers' drinking; pretty much the whole squad, coach included, were half-cut in the hotel bar by the time a theoretical curfew drifted by. David, who could never hold more than a couple of pints at the best of times, was feeling pretty tipsy as he finished his third, propped against the bar re-living his goal of the evening to the solitary attractive barmaid, gesturing wildly as he imitated the travelling supporters' reactions and the excitement of his teammates.
He felt an arm suddenly about his lean shoulders and he turned with a tipsy slur of speech towards his sudden companion, found himself looking into the broad rosy-lipped grin of his Welsh pal. `This poor lass doesn't need to hear your goal story for the fifth time, Davy boy,' Ryan teased, giving his shoulders a squeeze then winking at the good-looking twentysomething, who just giggled.
Wasn't the fifth time,' Beckham protested, blinking a bit and running fingers through his hair. Hey, why don't you tell her your goal story from tonight -- oh, wait...' The barmaid laughed again, but left them to it, summoned by some aggressive pestering from Cantona further down the bar. David watched her go with a pang of attraction but felt Ryan squeeze his shoulder more and looked his way.
Forget her, she's just after a tip,' Ryan said. And I don't mean yours.'
`Huh? I wasn't even... well, maybe flirting a BIT, but... heh...'
You've had your fill for the night,' the smooth Welshman noted, turned around to lean back with his elbows against the bar, and gave him a studying look. Shall we get you to bed before you start trying to recreate that Derby goal and smash a window...? Bless ya.'
`Only had three,' he burped at him.
Yep, that's my point, lightweight,' laughed Giggsy, poking him in the side. Come on, I'm shattered, and I ain't waking up in an hour to let you in when you lose your bloody keys. Go say your goodnights.' With a toss of his curling dark hair, Ryan nodded over to the main huddle of lads, then fished a room key from the pocket of his dark red United tracksuit. David grinned and nodded his agreement, strutted over in his matching kit, ready to the rounds of handshakes and hugs and, hopefully, a few more ego-boosting congratulations.
The two young midfielders were sharing a room on the fourth floor, generic and boxy. At 21 and 22, though, they were both still enough to find a vague thrill in the carousel of hotel rooms their profession took them to, and David found himself crouching down to inspect the mini-bar he knew they weren't allowed access to, and other such banal rituals of the itinerant hotel guest. Ryan was stood with his hands in his pockets looking out at their damp view, such as it was, whilst David surveyed the mini bottles and ubiquitous Pringles tubes.
Go on,' suggested Giggs then. Let's raid it.'
Beckham gave him a sceptical smirk. `Oh right, yeah, that definitely isn't item no.1 on the gaffer's rulebook, eh...'
The 5ft10 Welshman shrugged with a naughty glint in his dark eyes. Are they really going to be so harsh on the only lad who managed to score something in that dismal game?' he asked, waving a hand, and moving over to switch on another lamp by his bed before flopping sideways onto it. Go on, chuck us a little Scotch, and maybe a Pringle, let's be devils.'
`Red Devils,' Beckham joked weakly, and his roommate groaned. He chuckled at his own lame humour, threw one of the boozy miniatures his way, and took another for himself. He cracked open a tiny overpriced tube of paprika-flavoured crisps then fetched two teacups form the bureau. He sat on the side of his own bed and the two young athletes sipped strong whisky from cheap cups, grinning at their little rebellion and checking the clock: well past bedtime.
So come on,' Giggs said then, through a mouthful of crisps, tell us about Moldova.' It was a frequently asked question, what almost everyone David spoke to wanted to know, from his teammates and club staff to his family and neighbours; it was one he thrilled to hear, so proud to make his quiet debut on the senior national team, but also one that sent him into mild panic about that night sharing a room with big Al.
`Oh, you know, it was a cool experience.'
`What? Come on, don't give me that vague cliché shit.' Giggs slurped more Scotch from his teacup and put it done before unzipping his United tracksuit top and kicking off his trainers so he could relax on the bed properly. Of course, he was a lot more experienced than Beckham; only a year and a bit older but seemingly a lot more worldly, he'd played for the Wales first team since he was barely 18 and was a lot more comfortable with the honour than Becks. Not that the neighbouring countries could quite compare in those stakes, of course.
`Well what do you want to know?' David returned, hoping he didn't sound too defensive.
Whatever it is you ain't telling us,' returned Ryan quickly, giving him a curious and twinkling grin between the two beds. David paused at this, stared at him, then realised his error; of course Ryan knew fucking nothing but his own face and mood just now had revealed SOMETHING, that was for sure. On his side, the Welsh midfielder propped his head in one hand and picked up his boozy teacup, eyeing him thoughtfully. You're a shit poker player, Davy B, and you're shit at keeping secrets. Why do you seem to vanish from the fuckin' room every time one of us brings up the Moldova game, eh...?'
Had it been that obvious?! David had thought he'd concealed his unease well since returning to United training and shrugging off the excitement of his big start for the England senior team abroad. He thought his boyish humility had done most of the work, people assuming he wouldn't take about it as he didn't want to sound too smug or whatever.
`I'm not hiding anything,' he said then, in a tone so grumpy and awkward that it defied every word.
Right,' Giggsy chuckled, I see. Pringle?'
David stared down at the offered tube with a gloomy frown. He shook his head, refusing not just the snack, but the inquisition. `I just wish it had been a better game, a better debut, that's all,' he said evasively, and got up from the bed to undress. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the intrigued smirk on Giggsy's face and ignored it. Conversation somewhat killed, the men quietly wound down for the night. Beckham couldn't help but think again of that ugly concrete tower in Moldova and his shared room with the new England captain. He found himself idly envisioning that rug of hair on Alan's chest, the feel of his massaging on his... erm, shoulders.
Stripped down to his baggy striped boxer shorts, he brushed his teeth in the bathroom mirror and wondered if there was something effeminate about him, or some sign he was giving off, that had led that strange encounter. Was it the hair, the dimples, the youthful look? Did he give off `gay vibes'? He spat toothpaste into the sink with a sullen expression then lifted his head back to the reflection to see Ryan waiting in the doorway close behind him. Giggs was down to his undies too, tighter-fitting black briefs that briefly caught his eye before he pulled himself away; the Welsh player was a fraction shorter than him but a little broader and more developed, a sweep of dark fluff between his red nipples and down to his naval. That same interested smile was on the other lad's face and he lowered his gaze anxiously, not keen to engage with this.
Mate,' Ryan said quiet gently, do you wanna talk about it?'
He turned rapidly, a paranoid sense that his mind was being read. No,' he said, it doesn't matter.' Again, he felt like his clumsiness had given away much more than he wanted. It's nothing. It was just not the great trip I wanted, but I'm chuffed to be on that squad, and next time I'll-
Did summat happen?' Giggs asked. You've been off this week.' His voice, always pleasant to listen to with his Cardiff accent, was kind and soft and friendly, and David felt the urge to confide. Really, he'd wanted to all week; but the men on the United squad were also brash and gruff and manly and it just didn't seem like he could. He'd really thought about discussing it with Gary but he couldn't see the conversation working, pictured a dozen difficult and potentially aggressive reactions from his close pal who he hung out with more than anyone while up north.
Hey,' prompted Giggs gently, you know I've been on dozens of Wales games with a right mixed bunch of dickheads. I'm no newbie here. Not easily shocked.' The choice of words pricked up David's ears; it really was as if his mate here kinda knew what was bothering him, what had gone on, what was on his mind. He stared thoughtfully at him, awkwardly undressed as they were, a little uncomfortable with Ryan's casually skimpy underpants. In its own intimidating way, it was like being back with Alan!
Mate,' he said, feeling his face flush, I just had a weird thing happen, night before the game. I dunno if I should say anything about it.'
Ryan's curiosity seemed to peak. What, in your hotel room? You were sharing with the skipper, weren't you? Alan Shearer?' He folded his pale arms and cocked his head. Always knew Geordies were fuckin' weirdos.'
Hah... er... no, I mean, not really, I mean, I dunno.' David hated the awkward stammer of his voice, pitchy and weak at the best of times. He already regretted saying anything, but he also needed to get this off the chest. The taboo of what he'd let happen, what he'd done, it had been keeping him awake all week. Only losing himself in intense training and focus on the Derby match had given him any break from remembering it. Mate,' he said very quietly, `I kinda... I mean, I had a bit of a wank with the skipper, with Alan...'
Ryan shrugged. `Mate, you've never tossed off in a shared hotel room before? Fuckin' hell.'
Young David rubbed a palm over his face, feeling his own blush and the sudden claustrophobia of this small bathroom. He brushed past Ryan, shoulder against the fluff of his chest hair, padding back into the main room and hearing steps and voices of other guests, suddenly terrified of voicing any of this. But Giggs came after him making a soothing hey, hey', and put an arm on his bare shoulder. Mate,' the Welshman sighed, `I didn't mean that, I know you're not some prudish loser, just...'
It wasn't just in the same room,' David blurted out. It was in the same bed. It was -- it was -- I wanked him off.' It was out of his mouth and he felt no better at sharing it. Fucking hell, Ry, you can't tell anyone, you-
Hey, hey...' The hand squeezed his shoulder gently and he was face to face with Giggsy again in the centre of their hotel room, eye to eye. The Welsh midfielder just smiled calmly at him beneath the curling fringe of hair, all cheekbones and dark stubble. Is that all, buddy...?'
David stared at him, knocked off course by the quiet calm of the reaction. It was a relief and an alarm all at once. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. Yeah, just that,' he confirmed weakly. He started at the gentle chuckle of his fellow midfielder. I mean... Giggs, it was... did you hear me right? I tossed off Alan Shearer. A man. And he -- well he didn't properly touch me, but --`
Ryan shrugged his own shoulders and stroked David's softly. It's not the end of the world, is it?' He grabbed and lifted David's right arm, inspecting it in mock diagnosis. Hmm, doesn't seem to have damaged your wrist or your arm muscles at all, and it isn't turning a funny colour and falling off, so...'
Annoyed and feeling mocked, David tugged his arm back and shrugged the hand of his shoulder. He went to sit at the edge of his bed, suddenly more annoyed than relieved by the turn of the conversation. But Ryan followed, sinking down onto the mattress at his side, putting a calming hand against the centre of his back. He stared at him, affronted by his smile, wondering where the tense awkward dialogue he'd been waiting for, perhaps longing for, was hiding; did he just want someone to judge him as harshly as he was judging himself? Would that really help...?
I gotta say,' Giggsy mused, I'm a bit surprised about Shearer, I won't hide that -- I mean, big Al, really? But -- Davy boy, these things happen! We're all men. We all have needs.' David looked at him, stunned, and blushing even more deeply when he could tell that Giggs was laughing at his discomfort. But this just made Ryan sigh and pat his back more. `I'm not making fun of you, relax, I'm just saying... what does it matter, really? Did you both cum?'
The last question he might have expected, he struggled to answer it without stammering, so just nodded. He felt Ryan's hand shift a little up and down his lower back, then pat at his soft skin. He looked down at their side by side legs, his looking almost totally smooth since his leg hair was downy and blond, unlike the thick dark fur of Ryan's bare thigh and sturdy knee. We did,' he voiced eventually, and I felt so worried about it, I dunno what I did, I dunno why we... I dunno why I... Ugh...'
You're worrying why?' Ryan asked, another scoffing laugh. He reached his right hand over, rubbed two knuckles gently against one of David's puffy cheeks, then stroked it very carefully along the curtains of dirty blond hair, pulling his fringe away from his eyebrows. Don't go around looking like a spare member of Backstreet Boys crossed with some Vatican fucking cherub, mate. Don't you get how handsome you are?'
David goggled at him. `Sorry?'
`Becks, buddy -- you're a handsome fuckin' lad. The attention was always gonna be there. Girls, guys, whatever. You'll have to get used to that. I'm not saying you have to give in to it, I'm just saying you can't be shocked at it! No wonder a horny old bugger couldn't keep his hands off you...'
It wasn't like that,' Beckham protested. It wasn't, was it? It hadn't been like Shearer was perving on him or even after him, it had just been... It had just HAPPENED, and... I'm not even that good looking,' he said awkwardly.
Hmm, yes, you are,' Ryan said, but it didn't sound much like a compliment, more a critical evaluation. But I won't be arguing with you. Not about that, for fuck's sake. Just trust me, you're never going to go short of people who'll want to make you cum, and want you to make them cum too. Understood?' Beckham just gawped at him. Sorry,' Ryan said gently, I'm not trying to make you embarrassed or worried here, lad.'
I know,' David mumbled, I know, just...'
Look,' Ryan said bluntly, it ain't about being gay or not gay, if that's what you're thinking. We're sportsmen, we're like 90% testosterone, we're like soldiers or animals or...' David was starting to pull worriedly away, more paranoid now than five minutes ago, but Ryan's hand shifted from resting on his back to pulling at his side, holding onto him. `When guys like us need to release, we need to release, that's just that.' The hand crept up his side to his far shoulder, stroking it idly. The other hand hovered near his face, then reached in and stroked his smooth cheek down to his chin.
You're saying it's normal,' David said uncertainly. He could feel a calm relief somewhere just within his grasp but couldn't quite take the last step towards it. But this was Ryan Giggs, one of the most self-assured people of near his own age he'd ever met or played with, someone who just seemed so worldly and self-aware, someone who even the burly older United blokes seemed to respect implicitly. You're saying it's happened to you?' Beckham asked after a long pause in this close hold, side by side at the foot of the bed.
Mate,' said Giggsy, what I'm saying is I'm surprised it's only just happened for you, at 21.' He seemed to pull in closer, their warm drunk bodies sliding together a little. `Being the handsome fucking prick you are, that is.'
David laughed dryly at this repeated flattery and tried to relax a little, tried to change his confusion and distress at the way he'd become so excited and touchy next to Alan. Chief among his anxieties this week had been just that: no real worry that, as Ryan seemed to think, he'd been seduced or exploited by a randy older man, but more that his own youthful eagerness had spilled over and got both of them into dodgy territory. But by Giggs' logic, that was common and understandable for powerful competitive sportsmen in their context, and so...
I was just 18 when I started playing for Wales,' Ryan said very quietly, quite close to his ear. Sure, I ain't no golden boy like you, Lion cub, but...' A low filthy chuckle and David had to turn and look at him, suddenly very curious and interested. `The stories I could tell you...'
`Who with?' Beckham asked. The eagerness in his own voice surprised him.
`I don't think I should say.'
`But... but I told you about...'
`That was your choice, mate.'
Oh. Oh yeah. Right.' David thought about this uncertainly. But... can't you tell me what...'
`Why don't I just show you?' the Welsh lad asked in a thoughtful murmur.
David stared at him. Show me?' he asked dumbly. Show me what?'
Ryan grinned. `Show you the kinda attention you'll get if you want it, with your looks.'
`I don't think I get you,' David said slowly, but he did. He suddenly felt he knew what was being offered him, and he felt terrified. Terrified, but also horny. If only he knew, he thought suddenly then, if only he knew the FULL truth about me... there was a secret much more crippling to young David Beckham just then than the fact he'd knocked tools with an older Geordie hero, and he knew he couldn't say it aloud.
You've got a big one, haven't you?' Giggsy asked in the same gentle voice. I've seen it in the showers. As much as you try to hide it, yeh? Go on,' he urged, `get it out, will ya...?'
`What, now?' Beckham asked with trembling excitement on his face. Close to his face, Ryan nodded, a playful smirk in his eyes and lips. David stood from the bed and faced him, laughed a little at his own caution. He undid the button fly of his baggy boxers and let it flop out, aware it was already stretching and swelling a bit, though still floppy: it hung from the open fly, long and fat, and his ego swelled at the whistle of admiration from his teammate.
`Why do you hide it?' Giggs asked, eyes fixed on it.
I dunno,' the young United player admitted distantly. Lads used to take the piss, so...'
Ryan looked up from his dick to his eyes. `Mate. You know they were just fuckin' jealous, right?'
`Uh, oh, I guess, maybe -- is it really that... big?'
Ryan rolled his eyes. `You know it is,' he said, but as he did so, he brought one hand up, and lifted the fat meat up on his palm a little; the tiny friction of his rough hand sent a shiver through Beckham not unlike that first clumsy contact with Shearer.
I was never sure,' David said clumsily. Is it... bigger than yours?'
Sat in front of him, Ryan raised a single eyebrow, then clamped his other hand against the black bulge of his skimpy briefs, giving it a rub. A fair bit,' he admitted. Like I said... you're gonna get a lot of attention in your life, Davy B. Get used to it now.' As he spoke, he ran his hand back and forward a little and very carefully curled his fingers about the flaccid shaft, teasing the foreskin back a little.
`I dunno how I feel about that,' Beckham admitted shyly. In that moment, he found it impossible to imagine himself as a figure of any major attraction, the kind of footballer who'd be in the media or on the telly, in magazines and stuff. He let out an anxious giggle, which turned into a bit of a yelp as Giggsy's hand closed more firmly about his hanging cock and pulled ever so lightly on it. The shiver of pleasure now made his face twist a little and the yelp became a sigh.
`That feel good?' Giggs asked.
Erm, yeah,' Becks admitted. Thanks, mate.'
You'll have all the ladies after you,' Ryan predicted. Fucking models, popstars, all sorts of hot bitches. Just you wait, big lad, just you wait.' He pushed his hand back up the shaft and David, mortified, felt it stiffen and stretch, his cock almost hard in his pal's hand now. His cheeks still felt like they were burning red and his whole body felt clammy with hot sweat, though Giggs looked so pale and cool and relaxed, so much more mature with his chest rug.
`And blokes, you say,' Beckham put in nervously.
For sure,' Giggs affirmed. It's already started hasn't it? Dirty Alan Shearer, what a fuckin' turn up for the books.'
`You won't tell anyone, though?'
Giggs grinned at him, something devilish in his sculpted face. `You trust me, don't you?'
Beckham nodded. No hardly seemed a viable answer when stood in front of your close teammate and your cock is getting hard against his palm. He was stood close to the sitting lad that he could just about feel the tickle of Ryan's breaths against the swollen tip of his erection. He shuddered in delight at this and Giggs must have seen; he leaned forward a little bit and blew on it again, seemed to watch and smirk as Beckham's body quivered and his nipples turned to bullets.
Ryan got up then, and he backed off a pace to let him; the hand didn't leave his big thick hard-on though. It's huge,' Giggs confirmed gently. Ridiculously big, mate. You didn't realise? No bird told you that in bed?' David shook his head. `God...' And so Giggs scooped his cock and balls out of the front of his briefs and let them flop out, his semi bouncing a little before he began to stroke and summon it. Seeing them side by side, David could actually appreciate his own length and girth far more than he'd given thought to. It had all been quite blind and hidden, lying against Shearer and pleasuring each other last weekend in Moldova; no proper look at anything like right now.
`You wanna touch it?' Giggs offered.
`Can I?'
`Of course, mate. Go for it. You won't be the first.' The curly-haired lad gave him a mysterious wink.
David reached over and held onto it, feeling its firmness and heat. Alan's was bigger, he thought. Somewhere between the two of them in size. Maybe. It was hard to say. Hard, he thought, repeating the word to himself. So hard. Ryan was pulling back and forth with aching slowness on his big rod and he copied. Oh buddy,' moaned Giggs, then a chesty laugh, your hands are so soft, like a right beautiful lassie, you are.'
Fuck off,' giggled Beckham shyly. You can't call me a lassie while you hold onto my whopper,' he added boldly, and they both laughed now, some invisible tension easing with the banter.
Mate,' Ryan said then, why don't you just lie on the bed? I wanna show you summat.'
`What?' he asked immediately.
Just lie on the bed,' the Welsh lad offered keenly. Lie on the bed, shut yer eyes, trust me.'
Beckham hesitated but he felt an important faith in the other guy now, and in for a penny, in for a pound. He moved past Giggs and, glancing his way for approval, tugged his loose boxer shorts down and off, baring his pale round bottom as he did. He climbed onto the bed and lay down on his back, resting his head to the pillows, closing his eyes. Good work,' Ryan's voice told him from nearby, just relax and let me show you this...' The bed creaked a little and he felt Giggs climb on near him, the mattress shifting a little beneath their lean young bodies. Again, so faint it could have been imagined, he felt the man's breath tease the skin of his erection.
David brought his arms up to clamp his hands over his face, conflicted but so achingly aroused; when he felt the tongue graze his tip he yelped into his fists and parted his sturdy fluffy legs a bit -- oh my god. A pause, then another gentle wet sensation against his bell-end, more lingering. Fuuuck. He wanted to say something, he wanted to scream something, but he didn't. He felt gentle breath against his member then, just as he began to wonder if Ryan was pulling away and off the bed, lips clamped about his thick one and sucked on it. Ohhh,' he groaned out loud, unable to keep it in, ohh maaaate...'
He couldn't follow the instruction then, he had to open his eyes. He lifted his head a bit and looked down, saw the mass of dark curls flicker and swish as Ryan's head slid up and down a little, tonguing around his foreskin and kissing the fat end of his dick, then taking a few inches into his mouth. David let out wordless gasps and moans and thought one thing over and over: having his dick tugged through several layers of fabric by the rugged England captain had been intense, but it paled into insignificance next to this impossible ecstasy.
He whimpered shyly as the impossible continued, unable to quite believe what masculine Ryan Giggs was up to down there. He couldn't stop watching it. The concentration on the lad's face, the sight of his own dick quivering at each touch; the tickling sensation when his skin rubbed on the sharp stubble of Giggs' chiselled face. Had he done this before? It was so hard to believe but surely the answer was yes. He looked so confident in the act, as quietly cocksure as in everything else on and off the pitch, nothing like nervous eager-to-please Beckham in the past couple of years.
And then, `How was that?' The Welsh lad was on hands and knees between Beckham's spread legs, gently jerking his dick with one hand and licking a splash of drool from his pink-red lips, confidently meeting Beckham's eyes with no shame or question about his behaviour. David didn't really know what to say -- surely the throbbing of his veiny length was answer enough? As if aware of this silent answer, the other Manchester midfielder gave a husky laugh and spat on his palm to lube it more as he wanked. David stared from his own cock to the man's face, lost in disbelief. Disbelief and a very heavy dose of sexual satisfaction.
You sexy prick,' chuckled Giggs. You don't even know how beautiful you are. Son of a bitch.'
`You aren't bad looking,' Beckham said, but he didn't really know what he was saying. He'd hardly ever thought about how Giggs looked, except maybe admiring his curly hair or his rugged chest, he didn't really find himself comparing or evaluating guys like that. Not before, anyway. Right now he couldn't help but compare Ryan to Alan; compare Ryan's touch, slick and lubed and skilled, to Alan's. Now he really thought about it, there was no way Shearer had done anything like that before, it had been as new and mystifying to both of them, surely.
Giggs was on his side now, still wanking him off, but positioned alongside him to watch it, resting his spare left hand just below Becks' nipples. David began to hesitantly reach his right hand over, thinking maybe he ought to return the favour, but the other lad shook his head. You relax,' he said, I really wanna make you shoot. Will you shoot for me, Davy boy?'
I think so,' Beckham said, I dunno...'
`Oh I think you will,' Ryan said and sped up his pulls. David groaned loudly. He watched the man's fist really move its way up and down his slick wet length, more spit to help, and he realised that yes, he was definitely gonna shoot his load. Thank god Ryan's over here at my side, he thought, or I'd cum all over him, poor lad! With his right arm he reached to stroke the neck and shoulders of his friend, then pulled his fingers into those loose Welsh curls of black hair. He liked the intense way Ryan stared at his hard-on as he wanked, so focused on the job at hand, just like on the pitch!
Let me try this,' Ryan said, this will finish you off...' Just like that, he brought a second hand into play, and with it he tickled his fingers very gently but insistently against the heavy resting flop of David's bollocks. He was perfectly right. It took less than a minute with that double stimulation. Beckham pulled his head back, his hair lank and displaced, and closed his eyes. It was the most intense and sensual orgasm he'd experienced in all his years of maturity. He gasped up at the ceiling and opened his eyes again.
When he lowered his face, he saw the awe on Giggs' expression, momentarily confused by it. Mate,' breathed the Welsh lad, that hit the far wall. Fuck's sake. Is that thing a cannon?' He was still, idly, stroking it, but he looked a little unsure about getting Beckham's juices on his hand. As new as he was to this, Beckham curiously noted the limit, and felt the faintest sting of disappointment, wanting in spite of himself to see his load on a lad's face. Instead, he could see it streaking the chintzy wallpaper opposite them, a few funny damp marks on the wall. As if it had got that far, what the hell?
Now he was satisfied, he felt a little queasy and fearful again, but he looked his hairier pal up and down and felt the awkward duty rising in him. Ryan caught his eye and shook his head again. I'll finish myself,' he said gruffly. David wondered for a moment if this was some sign of boundaries or what was and wasn't okay; if Ryan wouldn't want him to touch his dick more, was he actually weird and wrong for having cum just now...? Was Giggs secretly judging him? But the lad's next comment threw him in another direction: Just you lie there, let me look at you while I do it, okay?' David just nodded.
So Ryan got up and stood there right beside the bed and wanked himself. Young David lay there, wondering if this is how nude models in old-fashioned paintings felt. Was he beautiful? Was that the point here? It was strange to think that Giggsy, one of the most womanising youngsters on the whole United squad, might find any desire in looking at him like this. But he lay there as requested, not feeling particularly attractive and sexy, and looked with wide innocent eyes as Giggs stood over him and jerked with frantic rhythm until, grunting and whispering words he couldn't quite make out, he shot his load. It flicked over David's crotch and thighs and a little on his bedding. He felt a stab of prudish dismay but then thought of his big dick in Ryan's mouth -- he could hardly complain. Giggs stood there gasping and grunting and squeezing final drops from his meat.
Slowly, his fellow player sank into a sitting position on the edge of the parallel bench, closing his eyes and catching his breath. Beckham watched him almost fearfully, thinking of the discomfort between he and Shearer that night as they crept to sleep, or avoiding each other between showers and on the way to breakfast. But when Ryan Giggs opened his eyes he just let out a long throaty laugh and then another whistle of admiration like when he'd first seen Becks' cock.
`That was summat else,' Ryan gasped.
`It was mad,' David groaned.
You want to take a shower?' There was that gentleness back in Giggs' voice, the voice of the more experienced mentor, though they were both so young. He was giving him a kind, almost patronising smirk, and reaching over to pat his toned tummy. Go get yourself cleaned up, Dave. I'm sorry I spilled on ya.'
`It's okay,' David said, though he felt mildly disgusted by it. He did want to wash. He got up from the bed, stark naked and more aware than ever of how his big limp dick fell and swung between his legs now. He saw Ryan watch it, met his eyes, and they both laughed; him nervously, Ryan almost giddily. He nodded encouragingly towards the bathroom and then got up to pull his briefs back on. In the shower, David stared dizzily at the tiling and scrubbed cum off his crotch and legs and realised how fucking happy and light he felt for this, the week's anxieties blown away with his spunk by the revelations of Ryan's experience. No, this didn't matter, this was just strong sporting men letting off steam and finding satisfaction, that was all.
When he went back through to the bedroom, fresh and still a little damp, Giggs was asleep on his front, his black-clad arse to the room, face buried between two pillows, his notorious snoring loud and raspy. David stared at his stretched body, then decided not to bother with his own prim pyjamas at the bottom of his travel-case. With a vague new confidence he shed his fluffy towel and climbed naked into his own bed, enjoying the loose swing of his cock and balls and the rustle of the fabric on his toned body. He thought about the way Ryan had looked at him as he came: pure desire.
David looked up at the house as he and the dogs returned to the gate at the bottom of their main garden. He could see lights on in the kitchen; Vicky and the kids were obviously getting his big birthday breakfast ready to start the day. Great, he thought with genuine relish, so much in love with the cosy and luxurious life he'd earned himself, even as his thoughts dwelt in a very different decade.
He'd just sent a short response to Alan's odd late-night birthday greeting. Thanks Big Al,' he'd text, then a little wink emoji, then the ambiguous Often think of those days -- especially my debut!!' And to round it off, a single kiss. He smirked mischievously, wondering if dull old Shearer would read anything more than celebratory cheer into those words and signs, whether he could prompt the same faint memories in that more conservative old dog.
But as he opened the gate and watched the Labradors bound in and up to the kitchen door, hooked on the scent of frying meat, he also thought about that second hotel room, that time with Ryan Giggs, that liberating blowjob that had released the first seeds of inner confidence. The confidence that a few years later Victoria had seen, fostered, moulded. He also thought about the last secret of that meeting, the one bit of that life-changing week he had never really told a living soul.
The reason that blowjob had felt so intense was that it was his first. What he'd been too scared to tell handsome enigmatic Giggsy, though he blurted out his awkward confessions about Alan Shearer, was that at 21 he had remained almost entirely a virgin. A few snogs, a few straying fingers, a couple of unsuccessful fumbles, but that was it. A crippling shyness and uncertainty about his own social skills had meant that for all his looks, 1996 David Beckham had never had anyone make him cum. Not until that clumsy jerk-off from Shearer; not until that revelatory suck-off from Giggs. For ages, the knowledge had troubled him: his first climaxes, brought on by blokes. Now, at 45, it made him laugh to think those two hyper-masculine figures had eased him in and cleared the way for the love of his life. By the time he bedded Vicky, seven or eight dates into their charmingly traditional romance, he had felt the confidence in his body and his equipment to truly satisfy her. If it wasn't for Moldova and Derby, he thought, he would have been terrified of his own dick.
So many memories. He closed the garden gate after him and took a last grinning look out at the fading mists of the rolling Cotswold countryside beyond. Those memories felt like real markers, the beginning of his serious career. The beginning of being taken seriously at Old Trafford, and the more literal beginning of his England years. For some, he knew, national teams were a fuss and a distraction; he couldn't help but note that attitude was more common in men who hadn't reached 100 caps for their fucking country, though. He allowed himself a smug grin as he strode up the garden path -- it was his birthday after all.
100 caps, he thought. There were less than ten of them to ever achieve this for England, a stat he enjoyed. Lampard, Gerrard, they too had reached those heights; and young Rooney, who was still more or less an active player, though not for the nation. 100 caps, 100 opportunities to represent this great country and fight for it on the pitch. For a man as traditional and patriotic as Beckham, there was nothing more special.
Pausing just before approaching the open door to the kitchen, from which came the happy noise of family life, he allowed one last smug thought from a freer age: 100 caps had been a fucking great achievement, and it had been a fucking great moment in his prime. A dirty little grin played on his moustached lips and in the creases around his eyes. The night he had become an England centurion was another big first, another bold move for the once shy and awkward youth who came back from Moldova with so many questions. Oh yes, he thought, that 100th cap was one of the highlights of not just his sporting career, but of his sex life too...
COMING SOON... PART 100: THE CENTURION